


o false sea

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, i didn't put archive warnings but like. it's bloodborne. it has some bloodborne content in it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: a good hunter meets one doctor, then another.





	

**Author's Note:**

> O false sea! false sea! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness;  
> Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple:  
> False and devouring thou art, and the great world dark and despiteful.

It starts like this: there is a different voice at the door.

Only it doesn’t start like that, but really a bit before. A hunter, inquisitive, turns back toward the clinic she awoke in. The doors are closed to her now, but a woman answers when she knocks.

And then she turns back again, and again, and again.

The hunter does not mince words, but she enjoys listening to this woman’s. Iosefka says: _once the night of the hunt ends, we can speak face to face. Then I can finally see what you look like. I shouldn’t be thinking this, but I am rather looking forward to it._ And the hunter does not color, not that this woman could see it if she did. Through the door she can only catch glimpses—a white shawl, feathery hair. It’s unwise to hope for anything on the night of a hunt, but she does hope to see this woman’s face.

 _So please, be careful out there._ echoes Iosefka as the hunter steps back out onto the street. The hunter is always careful, quiet slow tread and a glance around every corner. But the hunt is dangerous, always, and every time she wakes up in the dream still choking on the echo of her own blood, she thinks of Iosefka’s words.

 

 

Then it starts truly, like this: There is a different voice at the door.

She speaks sweetly, still, implores the hunter to help her help others. But her voice is different all the same.

The hunter is calm, grunts her assent. She knows, after all, the night of a hunt is risky. Any sort of fate can befall anyone. It wasn’t as if she truly expected anything to come of their moments of conversation. Still, she had rather hoped.

When she walks away, she almost wants to laugh. How could the imposter ever have thought to fool her? And as sweet as her words may sound, there’s no way she would trust anyone so clearly pretending to be who they were not.

Even so, she has a nice voice.

 

 

The first time, it happens entirely on accident. She’s been trying to help, all night, and now it finds her arguing with a man at his window. The fool just won’t listen, so she spits at him to get to Oedon Chapel and stay away from whatever lies in wait at the clinic, and then she stalks away.

It’s only when she’s halfway down the street that she realizes what she’s said. That man isn’t going to listen to her, not for a second, and he’s going to go straight where she told him not to. And she’s still fool enough to want to help, so she sprints to the nearest lamp and awakens, frantic, in the clinic, hoping to beat him there.

She doesn’t.

 _Oh, hello._ Says the voice at the door. _You're safe. What a relief. He's safe with me now._

The hunter is still panting next to the door when a delicate hand rolls two bottles of the mist she’s seen before under the door. This, then, is her payment for a life. She is swearing at herself but, really—really, she thinks, was this such a loss? Maybe the stranger behind the door is telling the truth, and simply hiding because her treatment is something experimental. And if not…the bitter man will not be missed. She knows. She knows.

She grunts to the strange woman. An assent and a goodbye, because she will not be making this trip again.

 _There may yet be humans out there._ The stranger responds. _If you find them, send them to my clinic. I endeavor to treat every survivor there is. So please, be a saint._

The hunter cannot help herself. She barks, out loud. A saint! For this! If she were a different person she might believe it, hearing it from such a lovely voice.

 _Not a saint, doc._ She says, but not unkindly. They need not be allies, but neither need they be enemies.

 _Please,_ comes the voice, _call me Iosefka._

Strange. But since the hunter isn’t coming back here, it doesn’t hurt to pretend.

 

 

The second time it is entirely intentional. But it is for a good reason, the hunter tells herself.

The beggar looks like a man, but the hunter knows better than most that things aren’t always what they seem. The beast in her smells malice on him, rolling off in waves. His true nature, though, is a gamble, so she’s not prepared to fight. But neither is she going to let him touch her flock.

 _There’s a clinic nearby._ She hears herself say. _The doctor there will help anyone still human. Go there, if you seek safety._

Good riddance, she thinks, as she turns away. Maybe the thing out here will kill the thing in there and that’ll be the end of her troubles.

And yet. And yet while the imposter may have managed to kill a defenseless doctor, who is to say whether she can hold her own against a beast?

I hope she can’t, thinks the hunter, rather crossly, and heads off through the woods.

But the next time she drags herself out of the dream she ends up, as if unconsciously, back in the sickroom. At first she doesn’t dare to knock on the door. She doesn’t know what she might hear or what she wants to hear. The false Iosefka can see her standing there, and says:

_I've received another patient. This time, I'll be trying old blood. I've achieved much. And I owe it all to you._

The hunter makes a quiet sound, pleased. So this odd little murderer is resilient after all. Then she catches herself—it would have been better had she died. The hunter accepts the new vials silently.

_Custom made. And cheers, to the discovery of kinship. Doesn't it make you feel warm inside?_

She snorts. What kinship could possibly lie between them? She’s saving her own people, not taking part in…whatever this is.

And yet. And yet there is a feeling inside her, though she would not call it warm.

Iosefka mentions something about how the treatment is going well and that makes her twitch. And what treatment is that, she wants to say, yet the smallest part of her doubts. What if this doctor really is treating them, helping them? What then? Then she’s done something good, hasn’t she?

 _Keep up the good work. Iosefka._ She says instead, stilted. It’s a longer sentence than she usually speaks to anyone.

 _I’m depending on you, brave hunter._ Says the terrible, beautiful voice behind the door.

 

 

She wonders about the imposter’s face.

From what she has managed to glimpse, she wears the same white shawl as Iosefka did, has the same pale skin and pale hair, a beauty of the Yharnam moonlight. The false Iosefka has expressed no same desire to meet her face to face. But the thought occupies her a little when she’s out hunting.

She gets lost in the woods again. Many do, and frequently, it’s nothing for her to be ashamed of. Down in the dark of a catacomb, she can’t see where she came in. But she is blessed with that certain animal instinct, and so she raises her head, searching for a familiar scent.

She intended to follow her own trail back, but she catches the hint of something else. Yharnam night air and something she can’t name. At first she can’t quite tell where she’s smelled it before, only that it’s familiar and nice and she wants more of it. So she follows it doggedly, trying not to lose it among the corpses. It takes her up, up, up, and suddenly, she realizes where she knows this smell from.

When she stalks her way up to the back of the clinic like a phantom and slips through the doors, what she sees is more than anything she could have learned from a voice.

The blue creatures—she does not understand yet just what they are—feel wrong, alien. Not of the earth like beasts are. She snaps her sawblade into position and begins to work.

This one, that smells of blood, that must have been the old man. And this one, here, that carries the marks of a beast, that must have been the beggar she was right not to trust. And this…

It’s Iosefka. She knows it, deep in her. Her throat tightens for a moment, but. She has known for a long time now that woman was gone. And she is gone now, beyond any kind of saving. Better to let her rest than to let her live like this. Better to…

The hunter holds the strange blue form close as she pierces it through.

Carefully, she proceeds through the clinic.

Iosefka stands atop the stairs, looking like a vicar herself. Wreathed in white like she saw through the door. She has drawn her cane already.

There is no way of knowing whether the first Iosefka had the same shape, the same soft but keen eyes, the same smirk slicing up her face. Her voice is so clear, like cool water, no longer muffled by the door. The hunter can’t remember the first Iosefka’s voice anymore.

 _Ah, moonlit scents,_ she coos at the hunter, still using that coaxing tone, _how did you worm your way in here?_

But when she sees the hunter, really sees her, weapon drawn and covered in fluids, she knows. For a moment, they understand each other. They see each other as they truly are. They know what the other is capable of.

Iosefka drops her pretense. _Well, I won't make any excuses._

The hunter does not move. Even her breathing is shallow. Yet she remains intently focused on the woman in front of her, daring her to take a step, to do anything at all.

_Would you mind leaving us alone? Things need not change...you'll do the rescuing, and I'll do the saving._

She understands what Iosefka is offering her. They can both walk away. She can pretend she doesn’t know what the doctor is doing, and in turn Iosefka will pretend she doesn’t know that the hunter is the sort of person who would go along with it.

 _But, if you refuse to leave..._ Iosefka rasps, twirling her cane idly. She seems relaxed, but her hands are practiced with it, ready to snap forward at a moment’s notice. _Ah, well...I always wanted to try my hand on a hunter..._

The hunter feels her blood heat. Yes, she wants to say, just you try. It’s what she wants, it’s what her blood wants, it’s the beast growing in her. What could be better than to tear and be torn apart? Her nose is keen now, and underneath the chemical sharpness Iosefka smells like so much blood.

 _No, Iosefka, I must have gotten lost._ She says instead, and flashes her most wolfish grin. _Was hoping you could give me a physical._

Iosefka gives her a derisive look, but seems pacified. For the moment. _I have other patients to attend to._

The hunter nods sharply and moves to see herself out.

 _Another time, perhaps._ Iosefka drawls, lingering at the top of the stairs before disappearing into her room. It hangs in the air. Not a promise, but an incentive. The bare hint of a reward for a job well done.

Out on the street, the hunter bends over, retching on the uneven cobblestone. Something was wrong with the air in there. Made her feel sick.

 

 

The third time, there are no words for what she does.

She can justify it any way she likes. The girl has no family left, she will not live long. The chapel is far off, she will not make it there. The night is unending, she will not see the dawn. Isn’t it better, then, that her death should at least help someone in some way?

It takes a moment for Iosefka to come to the door. The hunter waits close, her face almost pressed to the broken glass in anticipation. She just wants to hear something, anything. Preferably praise. Preferably for Iosefka to tell her to leave and never come back.

When she finally speaks, she sounds almost surprised to see the hunter returned after their last meeting. _Oh, hello. You're alright._ Her voice is pleasant, conversational. She must be able to hear the hunter breathing heavily, but shows no hint of anything amiss. _Very good. She's safe with me now, I presume you're to thank?_ The hunter nods, though she knows her conversation partner will only see the shadow of it.

 _The treatment is going well, stabilized, for the most part. Fascinating, really..._ There the hunter’s breathing stops short. You said we’d pretend, she thinks, feeling suddenly and irrationally betrayed.

Seemingly realizing her mistake, Iosefka coos at her. _What would I ever do without you? You're really making a difference._

What difference could this much more blood on her hands make? What is this all for?

_Remember, I'm depending on you, brave hunter._

Well, that’s what.

When she leaves the clinic, she realizes that she never spoke at all. Just like a dog.

She slinks off, ashamed.

 

 

The red moon rises.

No one answers at the door, so she slips through the woods and approaches the clinic from the back. She is calm. She knows, after all, the night of a hunt is risky. Any sort of fate can befall anyone.

There’s no sign of Iosefka in the back rooms of clinic. Nor does the noise draw her to the top of the stair. There is little evidence that anyone at all is here, save for the scent that the hunter can still pick up. A scent both disgusting and seductive, a mix of blood and chemicals and the strange overpowering smell of celestial fluids. And Iosefka.

It is foolish, careless, but she runs, giving no though to the noise of her feet on the wooden stairs. Anything that harmed Iosefka could be out for her blood as well but she doesn’t care, almost drops herself to all fours and simply moves in her haste to find the doctor, dead or alive.

She finds her alive.

Heaving, twitching, bent over on the table, but alive.

Iosefka leans forward on one forearm, clutches her stomach with the other. Flat stomach, but for a second something moves—no, it doesn’t. The hunter can’t seem to move, no matter how much she wants to.

_God I'm nauseous...have you ever felt this?_

She has, but she hasn’t truly. She wants to move, to call for water, to help her into a better position.

Iosefka raises her arm to grasp at something only she can see. Some slick twisting thing behind her eyes, or seen from different eyes entirely.

 _I can see things…I knew it, I'm different. I'm no beast, I…_ At a particularly violent spasm she heaves forward again, making animal sounds. _Oh god, it feels awful…but it proves that I'm chosen. Don't you see?_

The hunter sees and does not see. In the corners of her eyes she sees motion she does not understand. Looking through the roof of the clinic, she can see the moon. On the table is someone she has never seen before, a woman with a halo of milkweed.

She blinks, and sees what she wants to see, as she has all along. How she had always wanted to be chosen by someone, anyone! How Iosefka had called her one of the bright ones...but she has always been content with her eyes.

_How they writhe, writhe inside my head...it's rather...rapturous..._

Iosefka looks at her, finally. Her beautiful eyes are feverish, glazed over. The hunter recalls all the women she has seen dying in their cots, succumbing to infection.

She knows, then. She will not survive whatever terrible labor she has prepared for herself.

The hunter does not say this. She says _Yes, Iosefka, it is._ and draws her blade.


End file.
